


Sex Bomb

by nillawhiskey



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Dancing in the Rain, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Intoxication, Just something short and cute inspired by a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 05:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18958972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nillawhiskey/pseuds/nillawhiskey
Summary: Spy was once a younger, more reckless man.





	Sex Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for Spy being younger and, as a result, more foolish about his identity.

Parties were never something Spy enjoyed.

Well, no, that is not entirely accurate. He enjoys parties. With glasses of champagne, and words that all have underlying meaning, with people who could outwardly sound like they were holding friendly conversation but a deeper look could tell you they were passive aggressively threatening each other’s lives and business.

It was these… house parties that he does not enjoy. He is beyond overdressed, even after he left his blazer in the car, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his tie loosened. The eye-sore of a disposable cup in his hand has not remained untouched as a result, as disgusting as the swill within it is. The gentle sway when he walks and the overcrowding within the building was a well enough price to pay, he thinks, in exchange for feeling far more comfortable in said environment.

“‘Ey, Lu-bear.” 

But  _ oh. _ There is no price he has found that he won’t pay for  _ her. _ With his mind fuzzy as it is, he doesn’t have the reaction time in him to school his expression to something softer before he is grinning widely at the woman in question, wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer and press his nose to her hair. “Mm, oui, mon petit chou-fleur?”

She laughs, and she leans back as her arms come around his shoulders. “Nice to see you loosenin’ up, baby. Even…” She trails off, running a finger along his jaw with a raised brow.

“Oh, there is not a soul here who would recognize me, with or without it.” He closes the space made between them, letting his lips linger against her’s as she runs fingers through his hair. He stretches his arm out to blindly hunt out the nearest surface for his cup, leaving his hands free to rest on either side of her waist. “Would you step outside with me?”

She nods, giving him one more peck before they step apart, and Spy leads them through the crowd, out the backdoor and into the cool air. 

“Oh, it’s rainin’...” She reaches a hand out, confirming it. “At least it’s just a… Lu, where did your shoe go?”

He drags his gaze away from the rain, which he had been frowning at, and stares at her blank for a moment before looking down. Ah. Yes. That’s right. “My… foot hurt.”

She stares back for a moment, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as she barely holds in her laughs. “Oh, honey.”

“Who’s the priss?” A man’s voice calls from the side, the owner of it sitting on the little brick outcropping intended for plants, but currently only housing one. Spy would make his distaste known if he wasn’t already aware that the people here say ‘priss’ when they mean ‘person with class’. Even if it also has the unsaid implication of thinking he was better than them. Which he would argue wasn’t a matter of  _ thinking _ it, in most cases.

“Shut it, Bobby. He’s from  _ France _ .” She declares it proudly, like that in itself makes him exotic and fancy, even without his expensive suits and cigarettes. His smile at the back of her head is small, but loving. If he had seen it on another person, he may have described it as dopey. 

“‘Course he is. Look at ‘im.” Well, now he’s earned a frown from Spy. The man holds out the large bottle of whiskey he seems to have been sipping on. “He too good for whiskey?”

Spy scoffs — of course he isn’t, whiskey is a dignified drink, though he is not afraid to admit he will always have a preference for more the more expensive, aged kind. Regardless of his preferences, when she takes the bottle for a swig and offers it to him, he does not hesitate. It burns, and the taste is a joke, but the kiss he receives afterwards makes it the second sweetest thing he’s ever consumed.

“Dance with me?” There is a disgruntled utterance behind her, unintelligible; presumably from being so blatantly disregarded after sharing his alcohol. He barely registers it when the man tugs the bottle from his hand, shortly followed by the sound of the door opening and shutting, as he steps out of the patio’s cover and letting the rain hit him. At the very least, it’s a light rain.

“Babe,” she squeezes his hand, and there is a squint to her eyes that she makes when she’s extremely amused, with hints of exasperation. He has seen her make it to her sons, when they’re caught red handed for an especially funny prank. Now she makes it because he’s never drunk this much. He’s never been comfortable enough to allow drunkenness. Even now, he has made sure not to get so far gone that he isn’t aware of himself. “It’s  _ rainin’. _ ”

“Ah. A good point.” He releases her hand, leaning slightly to bring up his ankle, tugging his sock off after a short struggle with the garter. “Wet socks are disgusting, thank you.”

It takes a moment before she recovers from the surprise at his nonchalance, biting her lip to keep from laughing, which results in an almost pained-sounding wheeze before she shakes her head, toeing out of her heels. “Let’s dance, then, baby.”

There isn’t enough alcohol he’d ever consume that would make him forget the ensuing night, when they had parted to look at each other, something alight in their eyes.

However, as he takes an aspirin the next morning, he feels like he forgot  _ something. _

He’s sure it was nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> "27 years ago, I dropped a Sex Bomb on your mother."


End file.
